Ronie Dinosaur

Hey lady, it’s not the size of the heart nor the reach of the mind- people clock the curve of your ass and the snap of skin before anything deeper. So what did Ronie Dinosaur ever win? Read more from here...

Women don’t respect me. They have the old cattle instinct: they wait for the shepherd’s crook, the clear fence, the decisive voice that says “this way, not that.” I arrive without a staff. Read more from here...

He ran carrying the corpse of Sati on his shoulder, asking the sky, “What is this weight? Why me?” I run with empty fists clenched so tightly the knuckles bleed, daring the same sky: “Look me in the eye. Stop whining. Stop cheating. Fight fair.” My arms are not open in surrender; Read more from here...

Losing every battle, one by one, Ronie Dinosaur arrived- scarred, stripped bare, still standing. I no longer know where the winners went, or whether they ever existed. Even cattle need a shepherd. Read more from here...

Only Ronie Dinosaurs truly suffer- last titans with fire in their marrow. What can the characterless ever lose to disrespect? A shrug, a scroll, nothing that bleeds. Only the man who keeps his chest scoured clean of filth feels the blade twist inside. Read more from here...

You reach what’s truly inside a heart by his desire- its heat, its honesty. You weigh the desire by the purity of its intent. You test the intent Read more from here...

This is the age of whores, sir. Ram’s face is dark not pale in Kaliyug. The swan-once elegance itself-roots in filth, the cunning crow feasts on golden thrones. A cheap woman will knot a man of character, laugh while she milks him dry, Read more from here...

In extreme scarcity, when every distraction is stripped away, most people finally see money’s power and run after it like starved dogs. I did the opposite. That emptiness became my forge. A dinosaur among snakes-hunger, greed, lust, cheapness, helplessness-I refused to beg. I refused to worship money. Instead of learning tucchapana (how petty and insignificant material things truly are), I learned a fiercer truth: I am worth infinitely more than any coin or chapati ever placed on any plate. For 758 days in rehab, I begged from no one. No one gave me anything. I survived on nothing but 400 grams of atta per day. With iron discipline I kept the philosopher in me alive and turned my body into a weapon-gradually building to about 3,000 squats three times during that period and 1,500 knuckle pushups, once doing 620 in thirty minutes. The world keeps trying to teach me how great it is. I still don’t see it, and I no longer care. I will live the rest of my life exactly as I decided in that rehab cell. I call a call girl a girl. No one becomes a whore in my mouth-though I know exactly what a whore is. A call girl is not a whore; she is simply horny and also chooses to accept money for the act. Yet I never grant myself the luxury of pretending I am not a randa by evaluation, because the customer is the male whore. Still, shallow as that defense may sound today, I never completed the transaction as a customer. Many times I sent them away unpaid after they confessed their pain-one even saying, “I’m on my period but I need the money.” Most of the time, nothing happened at all. Even my first visit to a brothel wasn’t for flesh; I went craving female company. They were happy holding currency notes, and I just wanted to hold someone’s hand. Read more from here...

Imagine an arrogant cosmic salesman offering you this life again- a full do-over, new skin, clean slate. What would you do? Me? I’d let him live his current life for a single moment- Read more from here...

He pipes his flute-or been-before the buffalo, then dares blame her for “not understanding.” Her mouth, her mood, her flesh- all chained to the owner’s wrist. All theatre. All script. But the snakes are the real directors: Read more from here...